


On Bended Knee

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Thorin, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Milking, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the tone of Bilbo’s voice that does it, that sends a shiver down Thorin’s spine though the fire is warm at his back. This is a kind of bed play they’ve only ever spoken of, a fantasy Thorin once whispered in Bilbo’s ear while hanging on the cusp of sleep. </p><p>
  <i>I want to come to you as King and have you strip me down. I want you to bring me to my knees.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Bended Knee

The final evening bell has long since tolled when Thorin calls the counsel meeting to an end. He departs with a stiff nod and formal word, with heavy footfalls and a headache prickling behind his weary eyes. The treaties are left behind, placed into the care of the ambassador from Dale, sealed tight with Thorin’s mark and a red blot of drying wax that King Bard will crack open in a day’s time. 

It’s taken weeks to reach even this tentative settlement and still Thorin has failed to win the approval of nearly half the Lords on his counsel. He laid out and signed the revised trade agreement to the sound of huffing sighs and disapproving hums, though when Thorin raised his eyes from the page he was met with nothing more than guileless stares, Balin’s wane, sympathetic smile.

Thorin turns the negotiations over in his head as he walks, fingers curling up towards his palms in a stilted, jerking motion before relaxing again. It’s restless gesture, a pitiful, nervous twitch he thought he had broken himself of long ago. His childhood tutor was adamant that a dwarf of the line of Durin had no place in showing weakness, had rapped Thorin’s convulsing fingers more than once with the back of the ruler to reinforce the lesson. 

Shaking himself, Thorin clenches his hands into fists, and though that’s enough to halt his fidgeting it does nothing to allay his doubts. Had the others been right in believing him too lenient? Had he grown rash after being faced with a string of fruitless, wasted days, allowing his impatience to overcome his better judgment? The chief ambassador from the Iron Hills had been particularly displeased, openly arguing against Thorin’s tax cuts until Thorin snapped at him to be silent unless he had something new to dispute. 

He had thought little of it at the time, but now the worries have taken root, pestering at Thorin like a buzzing fly that refuses to be swatted away. Will Bard receive Thorin’s generosity in goodwill, or will he view it as weakness, press for more just to test how easily the King Under the Mountain will fold? It’s true that Bard has negotiated fairly thus far, never asking for anything more than what he thinks his people need, but new rumours have reached Thorin’s ears, ones that talk of friendship rising between Thranduil and the new King of Dale. What trust can Thorin now justly place in Bard as an alley, when he chooses to keep company with a snake? 

Bilbo had scoffed at Thorin’s suspicions the night before, bowed over a pile of his own work at his desk, the thin frame of his shoulders hitching upwards as he claimed it would not be in Bard’s character to bend to Thranduil’s wishes over his own ambitions for Dale.

“And what would you know of his character?” Thorin snapped, yanking the beads from the ends of his fraying braids, strands of hair catching against his rings and pulling out from the root. Bilbo had looked up then, eyes flashing, his expression shadowed in a veil of exhaustion and mounting frustration. 

Bilbo has been as just as busy as Thorin as of late, trying to smooth over a feud between the Smith and Mining Guilds while also assisting Balin in organizing the archives. And Thorin blames what happened afterwards on their mutual fatigue and shortened tempers, their shared annoyance at the little time they had to spend with each another. 

They hadn’t fought. Not really. But the bickering that followed held none of its usual humour. They spoke to one another with terse words and half-formed sentences, biting off what they truly wished to say. There was no apology given, no kiss exchanged to soften the blow of their argument. They went to bed angry, backs turned towards each other, and when Thorin woke in the morning Bilbo was already gone.

The memory weighs on Thorin, tugging at the taut chain that’s formed between his shoulder blades. Even when he reaches his own halls he can’t bring himself to relax, the pressure behind his eyes building when he glances into the sitting area and study, finding the rooms empty and dark. The kitchen offers nothing better, and though Thorin’s stomach growls he presses on towards his bedchambers without further delay, irked though he has no reason to be. He could have sent Bilbo a message asking him to wait up so they could speak. He could have ordered a feast to be laid out for them, cut the meeting short or rescheduled. Instead he did nothing but dwell, allow his hollow anger to fester and turn inward.

His private chambers are dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the single hearth crackling merrily at him from across the room. The bed is empty, one of the curtains pulled aside to reveal neat covers and untouched furs, and Thorin’s stomach clenches at the sight. His feet feel as though they’ve sunk down into the floor and his fingers spasm, curling upwards towards his palms before he can stop himself. Tired as he is, he has no desire to sleep without Bilbo there, had been thinking of how pleasant it would be to touch his hair or mouth lazily at the nape of his neck before easing down beside him. 

“You’re late.”

Thorin starts, turning on his heel, his hand falling to his hip to clutch at the hilt of a sword that isn’t there. It’s only then he notices the hobbit-shaped shadow falling from the plush armchair that faces the hearth. Thorin steps forward and around, placing himself between the chair and the fire, a confused frown marring his brow. A dozen questions hover on the tip of his tongue, but the sight that greets him is enough to push all thought from his head, to make his mouth run dry.

Bilbo sits with his legs crossed at the knee, his elbow planted on the armrest with his slender fingers tucked beneath his jaw. There are gold bangles dangling around his wrists and ankles, a jeweled cuff coiling over the shape of his pointed ear. A shining coronet has been weaved through his copper curls and his legs are uncovered, skin glowing bronze in the warm light of the fire. The crimson robe he wears is tied loosely at the waist, the collar parted and leaving the sharp cut of his collarbones exposed. It’s only just long enough to allow him some semblance of modesty, a sheer swath of fabric pooling between his thighs. 

Thorin’s dry lips part, a wispy sigh escaping from between them. Bilbo has never been one to turn up his nose at fine clothes, but always has shown a preference towards the style of his own people, dressing the part of the King’s consort only when the occasion demands for it. To see him like this, adorned in jewels and fine fabric in a manner that seems to mock the very idea of nobility… it sends a pleasant wave of heat throughout Thorin’s body, sparks coursing down his spine and settling low in his groin.

Bilbo’s gaze shifts away from the fireplace, his eyes lifting to meet Thorin’s own. He’s allowed his hair to grow during his time in Erebor, and it’s long enough now to brush against the rounded tips of his shoulders. He’s woven a lock of it into a single, slightly crooked braid that’s been tied off with one of Thorin’s beads. Strangely, that more than anything else is what draws Thorin’s attention, makes him want to reach out and touch. 

Bilbo says something more that Thorin doesn’t catch, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s been staring, standing rigid and entranced.

“What?”

Bilbo sighs out his nose, shaking his head. He draws his pink tongue out along his bottom lip, and Thorin follows the enticingly wet sweep of it, his weight shifting forward towards his toes.

“I _said_ you kept me waiting.”

It’s the tone of Bilbo’s voice that does it, that sends a shiver down Thorin’s spine though the fire is warm at his back. This is a kind of bed play they’ve only ever spoken of, a fantasy Thorin once whispered in Bilbo’s ear while hanging on the cusp of sleep. 

_I want to come to you as King and have you strip me down. I want you to bring me to my knees._

Any dwarf would have recoiled at the request, would have stared at Thorin as if he’d gone mad. What proud dwarrow would ever desire to be conquered in such a way, to submit so completely to the will of another? What King would ever ask to be made to kneel?

But Bilbo offered no judgment, only titled his head thoughtfully as he drew his fingers down the back of Thorin’s neck, lips ghosting over Thorin’s temple as he whispered that he would like that, too.

“The meeting ran long,” Thorin says. His tongue feels clumsy, too large for his mouth. Bilbo hums in response, sounding unimpressed, _disappointed_ , and that alone is enough to make Thorin’s legs quake. 

“They always seem to, don’t they? No matter. You’ll make it up to me.”

Thorin fights against the urge to shift his weight, anticipation unfurling restlessly in his stomach. “Will I?”

Bilbo rubs the back of his forefinger along his jaw, the ruby-studded band at his knuckle flashing.

“Mm. You can begin by taking off your cloak.”

Thorin’s fingers twitch, his arms locking at his sides. He’s suddenly, terribly, aware of weighted furs lining his shoulders, the crown on his head. 

There are nights when giving in comes easy, when Bilbo needs only to press his hand against the curve of Thorin’s spine or grip at the scuff of his neck to have the King of Erebor bending eagerly to his will. But there are others when Thorin can’t let go, when he fails to shake free the shame clamping around his heart like a vice, to block out the sneering voice in his head telling him he has no place on his knees.

Bilbo leans forward in his chair, eyes pinching at the corners with concern. His act doesn’t slip, not yet, but Thorin knows if he were to give the word Bilbo would shed it without a moment’s pause.

He doesn’t, not yet, but neither can Thorin bring himself to comply. He wants—he _shouldn’t_ —

“Ah,” Bilbo says, understanding lighting his eyes. He settles back into the cushions and makes a distracting show of stretching out his legs before neatly crossing them again. The fabric over his groin shifts, revealing a quick, tantalizing flash of skin and wiry hair before gliding back into place. “I see. You come back to me after days spent in the presence of your counsel forgetting I am your husband and not your subject, that you do not carry the burden of Kingship within these walls.”

Thorin exhales, a long, slow stream of air replaced by a warmer, deeper breath. 

“You think not?”

Bilbo says nothing. He touches his own throat, a knowing, self-satisfied smile shaping over his mouth as draws his fingers downwards over the bare portion of his chest, stopping at his waist to play with the loose ties of his robe. 

It’s strange, Thorin thinks, how such a display comforts him as much as it excites, settles something deep in his chest like a stone sinking in still water.

“Such confidence, burglar,” Thorin says, the game coming easier to him now that he’s grown willing to play. Their petty sniping from the night before seems a distant memory, brushed aside by the scene Bilbo has conceived, the tantalizing gift he offers. Thorin unlaces his vambraces and gloves, dropping them heedlessly to the floor one after the other, deliberately bypassing Bilbo’s order. “You believe I can be so easily taken?”

“Only by me. You would never bend for another, but me?” Bilbo’s grin sharpens, curving like the edge of a knife. “Do you think I don’t hear those little noises of yours? The ones you make when you’re spread out and open beneath me, that have you stuffing your own fist against your mouth even as you’re choking on my name?”

A wicked shudder rips through Thorin, gooseflesh rising along the back of his neck. It’s always been like this with Bilbo, from the very first time he settled down on Thorin’s lap and asked him what he wanted. More than once Thorin has found his release stroking himself with Bilbo’s pressed flushed to his side, his mouth warm and wet against the curve of Thorin’s jaw, describing the manner in which he would like stuff Thorin full, to set his tongue against his length and lick. 

“I know you can’t help it,” Bilbo continues, his voice falling low, as if revealing a secret. “You’re always so stubborn, trying to deny the very thing that you want. And to tell you the truth of it, well…” 

Bilbo bows his head, short brown lashes drifting against the freckles on his cheeks, a shy smile playing over his lips. Thorin knows it’s a ruse, knows that Bilbo only ever acts at being coy. And yet he’s helpless against the show of it, dropping his guard against what’s to come.

“I like it.” Bilbo’s eyes flash green or blue as his gaze lifts, pinning Thorin in place. “I like taking my time with you, watching you unravel beneath my hands. I like making you forget you ever wanted to be silent. I like making you _beg_.”

Bilbo reaches out, grabbing the clasp of Thorin’s belt and tugging him a step closer. Thorin stumbles, the toe of his boot snagging against the rug, catching himself against the arm of Bilbo’s chair. 

“Look at you,” Bilbo marvels. His touch shifts lower, a single finger tracing down the inseam of Thorin’s doeskin leggings. They’re close enough now that Thorin can feel the warm brush of Bilbo’s breath against his skin, smell the earthy scent of the oil that’s been rubbed into his hair. “Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are like this? How red your cheeks become just before you give in? And you _want_ to give in, don’t you? You want to show me how good you are.”

A strangled sound rips itself from Thorin’s throat. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, nuzzling close and parting his lips eagerly when Bilbo tips up his chin. Kissing Bilbo is a relief, the lingering tightness pulling at Thorin’s shoulders melting away as Bilbo’s hot tongue slips against his own, sweet and wet.

“Take off your cloak,” Bilbo says again, and Thorin concedes with shaking hands, stepping back clumsily as he unpins the broach at his collar, allowing his mantle to slip down his back unaided. He reaches for the laces of his tunic without being asked, and Bilbo settles his jaw atop his fingers once more, admiring Thorin through partially lidded eyes.

Thorin is considered neither handsome nor ugly by the standards of his people. His shoulders are broad and his arms are strong, his hair dark and long and already run through with shining threads of silver. But his waist is perhaps too tapered, his features pinched and soft, and though his beard is thick it remains shorn close to his jaw, slow to lengthen though it’s been months since he last reached for a razor. 

‘Plain’ is what Thorin would call himself, but never what Bilbo has named him. Bilbo draws his teeth along his swollen bottom lip as he watches Thorin strip, eyeing his furred chest when he peels off his undershirt, the sharp cut of his hipbones as he unlaces his belt. Thorin suspects Bilbo even likes his feet, given how his gaze dips downwards and darkens when he steps out of his iron-tipped boots.

Bilbo reaches out only once Thorin is bare of all but the beads in his hair and the rings on this fingers, his heavy, heavy crown. He traces the thin, white scar that cuts across Thorin’s ribcage, rolling his thumb back and forth over its puckered edge.

“Lovely,” Bilbo breathes.

Thorin does not shift his weight, does not duck his head like a bashful, untried stripling. But he feels his cheeks heat vividly beneath his beard and he has to close his eyes or else risk being buried beneath the tender affection shaping Bilbo’s mouth. 

“Silly thing,” Bilbo says, a fond note tinting his voice. He has Thorin extend his arm and pulls off his rings one-by-one, setting them aside on the small table at his elbow, each placement marked by the quiet click of metal on wood.

“Now kneel.”

Thorin stiffens, his toes curling against the rug. It feels thick and soft beneath him, would act as forgiving pad under his knees, but still he hesitates. He’s no stranger to placing himself at Bilbo’s feet, has been more than happy in the past to crouch before him at the end of the bed or with his back against a wall, fervently awaiting the weight of Bilbo’s prick between his lips. Ridiculous, for him to falter now, and yet he does, his hair falling forward over his shoulders as he bows his head, looking down at his pale legs. His prick stirs keenly between them, flushed and heavy but not yet fully hard. 

Bilbo kicks out his leg, brushing his toes against Thorin’s shin. He gives Thorin a soft, playful little push, the bangles around his ankle clinking. _It’s okay_ , the gesture seems to say, and it is, for Bilbo would never think less of him for this, only asks because Thorin had said it was what he wanted. And what shame is there, in bowing before Bilbo? Is he not Thorin’s husband? Is he not his equal?

Slowly, Thorin lowers himself, shuffling forward on his knees when Bilbo parts his thighs in open invitation. Without a word of warning Bilbo reaches down and plucks the crown from Thorin’s brow, two fingers hooking beneath the band and drawing it up and away as though it weighs nothing to him at all. 

Thorin bows forward, bending like a sapling in a windstorm. He presses his cheek against the curve of Bilbo’s knee, sighing as though a great weight as been lifted from him. A half-swallowed whine follows after, drawn out by Bilbo’s sure fingers slipping beneath the thick fall of his hair, rubbing small circles against the flat of Thorin’s skull.

“Is that better?”

Thorin nods. Bilbo clicks his tongue, the sound of it dry and unsatisfied. He pulls away only to come right back, tucking his hand beneath Thorin’s jaw and urging him to lift his face with a gentle nudge.

“Tell me,” Bilbo says. His eyes are liquid-dark in the orange glow of the fire, drawing Thorin in. 

“Yes,” Thorin croaks. The word is barely more than a whisper but Bilbo still smiles, admiring Thorin’s as though he’s done something unspeakably charming. 

“Put your hands behind your back for me.”

Thorin shivers at the command, crossing his wrists against the small of his back, peering up at Bilbo’s through his lashes as he nuzzles against the palm now cupping his cheek. His attention is redirected when Bilbo shifts in his chair, flexing his legs.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Bilbo asks, his thumb drifting back and forth along the rough edge of Thorin’s beard. “I think I should have made use of this robe long ago. Just the feel of it against me…”

Bilbo rolls his hips, the muscles in his thighs tensing and relaxing as he hums low in his throat, his head falling listlessly to the side. Thorin strains forward, wanting desperately to be closer. He can see the pale length of Bilbo’s prick hardening through the sheer cloth and envisions himself laying his tongue against it, lapping at Bilbo through the fabric until he can taste his excitement. 

The hand cradling Thorin’s face skims downwards. Bilbo touches a finger to his mouth, drawing it along the seam of his lips. Thorin sucks him in readily, a soft moan beating against the wall of his throat as Bilbo glides his finger back and forth across Thorin’s tongue, his gaze bright and heated, colour painting the apples of his cheeks.

“Here,” Bilbo croons, his free hand hovering over his lap. He pinches the end of his robe between two fingers and lifts it away, silk sliding over his clean skin like water. “Is this what you want?”

Thorin sighs around the finger in his mouth. Bilbo’s cock is lovely, curving thickly against his soft belly, smooth and rosy at the tip. Bilbo gives himself a generous rub, muttering Thorin’s name. Thorin answers with a low groan, suckling at the soft pad of Bilbo’s finger in a voiceless plea. _Let me, oh, let me…_

Bilbo pulls back, his nail scraping softly against Thorin’s bottom lip as he smears a damp stripe there. Thorin straightens his spine, saliva flooding his mouth in anticipation he tips forward, bringing up his hands.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, a low note of warning in his voice. Thorin freezes, his fingertips hovering over Bilbo’s knees, grazing the sparse scattering of hair that lines his legs. He feels his face flush in a shameful, prickling wave that spreads down the back of his neck and along the tips of his ears, a stuttering apology catching in his throat. 

“It’s all right,” Bilbo says, stroking his jaw, running his thumb along the sharp curve of his cheekbone. “Just put your hands back. Good, good. Now come here.”

No doubt Bilbo’s expecting a slow tease, Thorin’s fluttering lips drifting over his length followed by the tentative swipe of his tongue. But Thorin can’t bring himself to wait. He sucks Bilbo down all at once, swallowing so deeply he nearly gags. His reward is a startled gasp, a hand returning to the back of his head. The veil of his hair is brushed aside and gathered away, twisted around Bilbo’s fingers and held clasped at the nape of his neck. Thorin trembles with the knowledge that this isn’t being done for his benefit, knows that Bilbo likes to see the swollen stretch of his open lips, the bulging curve pressing against Thorin’s cheek.

“Oh,” Bilbo breathes, letting out a started squeak when Thorin grazes his teeth against the edge of his foreskin. A breathy laugh follows, accompanied by a firm tug on Thorin’s hair as Bilbo reels him back, brings him to heel. “Well now. Is that how you plan to be?”

Thorin tries to crane forward, his mouth nearly empty now but for the warm tip of Bilbo’s cock. He whines when Bilbo holds tight, lifting his eyes, trying for pity, rubbing his tongue wistfully against Bilbo’s slit and licking away the fluid that bubbles up. Bilbo shakes his head, lifting his legs and draping them over Thorin’s shoulders, twitching his hips just enough to convey his intent. 

Thorin makes an involuntary sound, overtaken by a bone-deep shudder. He nods as much as Bilbo’s hold will allow, letting his jaw hang slack, watching the muscles in Bilbo’s abdomen tense as he arches his back and begins to move, a red flush spreading over his hairless chest, his nipples peaking with arousal. 

Thorin doesn’t suck or lick, offering nothing more than the heat of his mouth for Bilbo to use as he will. Bit by bit his desire to touch and hold slips away from him, coaxed into contentment by the weighted heat between his lips, the leisurely pace Bilbo sets as he fucks into his mouth. He would not be able to say how long they remain that way, time blurring between the beats of his heart, the pulsing heat tightening his sack. He whimpers when Bilbo pulls away, saliva and slick sticking thickly at the corners of his lips, smearing the edges of his beard.

“Greedy,” Bilbo calls him, his voice cracking along the edges. “You want me to spill in your mouth, hm? You want to lick me clean?”

Thorin cannot think of a single thing he desires more. He draws his tongue up and down the vein lining the underside of Bilbo’s shaft, pulling away so he can lave at his heavy stones.

In the end Bilbo denies him of his prize, allowing Thorin to lap at him once more before pushing at his shoulders with muttered whispers of enough, enough. Thorin pulls back with a loud, lewd slurp, swaying on his knees, the taste of Bilbo’s early seed sharp and heady on his tongue. There are hands in his hair again, petting, catching, pulling him up until he’s bowed over the chair with Bilbo’s lips sealing over his own, kissing him breathless.

The fingers wrapping around him come as shock, dragging out a muffled moan that Bilbo swallows down. Bilbo strokes him once, twice, before letting go completely, breaking their kiss with a wet gasp as he turns his face away.

“Bed,” Bilbo says. His cheeks are ruddy, the curls at his temple damp with sweat and sticking to his skin in dark whorls. “Go.”

Thorin doesn’t move. “You… you would make me wait?”

Though his voice creaks Thorin’s tone remains low and demanding. Any other would shrink away from it, bow their head and lower their eyes. Submit to their king. But Bilbo only lifts a pale, unimpressed eyebrow and takes Thorin in hand once more, thumbing messily at his slit, spreading the jewel of fluid he finds there down and over the length of him. 

“I would,” Bilbo says. “I would have you laid out on your stomach with your legs spread, imagining all the things you want me to do to you.”

Bilbo runs a now damp finger up and down the underside of Thorin’s prick. With a cry Thorin’s knee hits the edge of the chair, taking his weight as he dizzily presses his face against the side of Bilbo’s neck.

“But you won’t touch yourself, will you Thorin?” Bilbo’s lips brush against the curve of Thorin’s ear, followed by the sharp drag of nibbling teeth. “No matter how long I tarry, even if I come to find you bent over and panting with need?” 

“No,” Thorin gasps, his cock jumping in Bilbo’s hand. “I won’t, I wont...”

It does something to Thorin, to be goaded into saying such things. It should shame him, should make him want to clamp his jaw shut and hide his face like a guilty child, but he finds the indignity of it only fuels his lust, urges him to give himself over to Bilbo in every way imaginable. 

With a final stroke Bilbo releases him, pressing back into his chair and looking up at Thorin expectantly, canting his head. Thorin clears his throat and straightens on unsteady legs, foolishly proud that he doesn’t look back at Bilbo after turning towards the bed.

The curtains whisper along his skin as he slips between them, settling down over the furs and curling his arms around the nearest pillow, drawing it close and pressing his cheek against its cool covering. He’s dimly aware of the sound of a match being struck, the near-silent tread of naked feet padding across polished stone. Thorin opens his eyes to watch Bilbo’s silhouette through the thin lining of the drapes, growing clearer with each candlestick he lights. Thorin can just make out the shapely curve of his waist and arse, his cock throbbing with interest. Almost too late he remembers to spread his legs, make a show of himself.

The bed dips. Thorin lifts his head and looks over his shoulder, shaking his hair from his face. Bilbo has discarded his robe but none of the jewelry, the bands on his arms flashing as he settles between Thorin’s thighs with flask of oil in hand. He pull the cork free with his teeth, spitting it aside with no care for propriety, eyeing Thorin hungrily as he urges him to turn back around. 

Bilbo presses his chest flat to Thorin’s back, his hands glossy, slick fingers kneading at Thorin’s biceps and shoulders as he sets his teeth against the scruff of his neck, sucking a bruise into his skin. Thorin knows the mark will take days to fade, that he’ll be able to reach beneath the collar of his tunic and touch his fingers to it while sitting in his counsel room or on the throne, feel the sting and remember. 

“Ah-ah, none of that,” Bilbo says, and its only then that Thorin realizes he’s begun to grind against the mattress. The weight of Bilbo’s body lifts away along with his hands, one stealing down to pinch a reprimand into Thorin’s side while the other is quick to return, slippery with fresh oil, rubbing up and down the rope of Thorin’s spine.

“Do you need to be on your knees?” Bilbo asks. “Do you need to be bound?”

Thorin trembles, drawing his tongue along the cage of his teeth, eyelids fluttering as he remembers the feel of knotted silk encircling his wrists and ankles. It’s a tempting offer. The last time Bilbo tied him down he had gone on to tease Thorin for what felt like hours, slicking his nipples and stones with a salve that grew warm when it came into contact with skin, scattering biting-kisses along the inside of his thighs. Finally he took Thorin’s cock in hand and told him to thrust, rubbing himself off leisurely as he watched, whispering dirty words of praise as Thorin’s fucked himself up into his tight, perfect fist.

“I don’t,” Thorin says. The words come out sluggish and slow, as if he were speaking while drunk. He can’t deny there’s an appeal to the binds, but finds himself wanting to exert his own self-control instead, to show Bilbo just how good he can be.

“No? You’ll stay spread out and still for me? Just like this?” Bilbo digs his thumbs deep into the muscles of Thorin’s back, working him over like a lump of stubborn dough. 

Thorin nods, gasping out a choked promise when another pinch follows.

Bilbo’s hands glide lower, settling over Thorin’s arse and kneading at his cheeks, prying them apart. Two fingers hold him open as more oil is drizzled over his cleft, and Thorin moans when Bilbo rubs lewdly at his entrance, just barely dipping inside before easing away, encircling the muscle. 

“Did you think about me in your counsel room, Thorin? On those late nights while some ambassador droned on about the salt taxes for the sixtieth time, did you lean back in your chair and let your eyes glaze over? Did you fantasize about this?”

A finger presses inside, just enough for Thorin to feel the blunt pressure of it, and Bilbo rocks himself against the back of Thorin’s thigh, the hot stripe of his cock burning like a brand against his skin.

Yes. _Yes._ Please…

“Of course you did, you wicked thing. I knew. I could tell by the way you looked at me in the morning. Did you touch yourself at night when you returned to find me asleep? No?” 

Thorin shakes his head, groaning when Bilbo pushes in deeper. A hand tucks beneath him, tracing the heavy outline of his sack.

“Oh… you feel so warm here. So full. You really didn’t spill once, did you? Saved all of it for me…” Bilbo latches his mouth to the skin between Thorin’s neck and shoulder, pressing a second finger in alongside the first. 

He takes his time opening Thorin up, scattering biting kisses over the broad expanse of his shoulders, shimmying downwards and tonguing at the low dip in his spine. Thorin groans into his pillow when Bilbo finds the sensitive pebble deep inside of him, rubbing against it, setting a ruthless, uneven rhythm that keeps Thorin teetering on the very edge, unable to sink into his pleasure nor be fully overcome. He ruts mindlessly against the bedspread, mouth open, turning his face to the side as he gasps for breath. Bilbo doesn’t tell him to stop, adds a third finger as he whispers filth into Thorin’s flushed skin. _That’s it there, hm? Oh, you need this so badly, don’t you? Does it feel good? Do you want more?_

Thorin’s legs are shaking when Bilbo pulls away. He urges him to sit up on his knees, pressing a hand between his shoulder blades until he’s bent forward with his brow resting over his forearms. Thorn’s limbs feel weak and sluggish, his mind muddling pleasantly, thoughts drifting beneath a shrouded haze. He shivers at the sound of Bilbo slicking himself, picturing the quick motion of his hand, the fluttering, warm stretch of his throat. And then the tip of Bilbo’s cock is prodding against him, pressing in, and Thorin sighs in wanton delight, rocking his hips back to meet the pressure. 

“Please,” he rasps. Bilbo’s thumb drifts back and forth over his hipbone, the gentleness of his touch offset by a steady push that nudges the crown of his prick further against Thorin’s twitching hole. “Ah, _please_.”

“Since you ask so sweetly…”

Bilbo rocks forward, entering Thorin in one slow, easy slide. A loud, bawdy groan tumbles from Thorin’s mouth, his hair falling over his face as he turns his head back and forth, blocking out everything but the image of his pale, trembling hands clawing at the sheets. 

Bilbo fucks him slowly, bowed over Thorin’s back, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. A keening whine escapes from Thorin when Bilbo thrusts deep, grinding against that sensitive place. Bilbo puffs out a moan or a laugh, repeating the motion with vigor, pulling back and pressing in, rolling his hips. Thorin’s eyes drift shut, a strange feeling of drowsiness falling over him as Bilbo settles into a rhythm. His excitement grows even as he’s lulled, pleasure pooling in his veins with an intensity that makes him dizzy. 

A sudden, hard drive causes him to stir, bringing him back to himself. He lifts his head, a bead of sweat trailing down along the sharp line of his nose. His mouth is dry from hanging open, his throat raw and scratchy, and Thorin wonders how loud he’s been, what kind of noises he’s made. It unsettles him, that he can’t remember, and he sets his knuckles against his lips, teeth scraping over his fingers as another moan threatens to break free. 

“No, no, let me hear you,” Bilbo gasps. “It’s okay, it is, you can let go for me…”

Bilbo pushes into him fast and deep, hard enough that Thorin’s knees slide over the bedspread. Thorin whimpers, shuddering, unable to keep himself from babbling when Bilbo snaps his hips again, crying out _yes_ and _please_ and _more_ , moaning unabashedly when Bilbo gives him what he wants. The world turns dark around the edges, reduced to the unsatisfied pulse in Thorin’s cock and the slap of skin on skin, the nonsense that pours heedlessly from his mouth. Bilbo’s fingers slip against sweat, his movements frantic, and on instinct Thorin clenches around him. 

Bilbo’s pace stutters. He groans and jerks, screwing himself in as deep as he can go. His cock throbs once and then again, and Bilbo comes apart with a reedy shout, trembling as he folds over Thorin’s back, nails digging in at his waist. 

“Good, you’re so good,” Bilbo murmurs, kissing Thorin’s shoulder, the damp ends of his hair. He reaches down, touching the place where they’re joined and rubbing at the twitching muscle, his fingers quickly growing slick as he begins to ease out. He hushes Thorin’s whimpered moan, settling his hands over his sides, urging him to turn over.

Thorin rolls onto his back with a low rumble, feeling boneless and heavy. Bilbo hovers above him, damp curls frizzing around his face, his cheeks dark with blood. There’s a gleaming spot of sweat gathering in the hollow where his collarbones meet, and Thorin entertains the idle fantasy of licking at it as his breathing slows, fingers skimming through the hair that covers his chest and belly, reaching for his cock.

The touch at his wrist stops him. Bilbo’s eyes flash as he guides Thorin’s arms up to rest against the cushions laid out above his head, silencing his pitiful mewls with a slow, deep kiss, entwining their fingers together. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin mutters. “I…”

“Shh.” Bilbo hooks his hands beneath Thorin’s knees, nudging them open before sliding downwards, holding Thorin’s gaze. “I think you deserve another kiss.”

“ _Bilbo_ —” 

“Stay still.”

Bilbo presses the whisper of a kiss against the very tip of Thorin’s cock, the bead of clear fluid there breaking against his pink lip.

The headboard creaks in Thorin’s grasp. His cock is so hard it aches and he can feel Bilbo’s seed leaking from him in warm, thick rivets. It takes every shredded ounce of his self-control to keep himself from bucking his hips when Bilbo suckles at the hot skin just beneath his slit. 

“Give me your arm,” Bilbo says, placing one last, quick peck atop Thorin’s prick before sitting up, seeking out the discarded pot of oil by touch. He unscrews the lid and briskly sets about slicking three of Thorin’s fingers, guiding his hand down, down, down.

Thorin’s lips shape a silent ‘oh’ when it dawns on him what Bilbo means for him to do, when he feels the calloused tips of his own fingers brushing against himself.

“Go on,” Bilbo says, taking up Thorin’s leg and hooking it over his shoulder, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the inside of his knee as he holds him open. Thorin pushes two thick fingers inside, his well-used hole offering no resistance, loose and wet from the oil and Bilbo’s seed. 

And so Thorin is encouraged to preform, rocking onto his own fingers, adding another when Bilbo whispers the request into his skin. His back arches when he brushes the root of his pleasure, and Bilbo urges him to find it again, to press against it for as long as he can stand.

“Yes,” Bilbo tells him. “Yes, yes, there…” as if he were the one being touched.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says. The name sticks in his mouth, tastes as thick and sweet as dark honey. “ _Bilbo._ ”

Bilbo licks his thumb, reaching over Thorin’s neglected cock and hitching chest, swirling the damp tip over his nipple.

“Just a little more,” Bilbo says.

Thorin’s legs twitch, his toes curling into the sheets as he pumps his fingers. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He tucks his chin against his chest, catching sight of his cock, flushed blood-red at the tip and leaking a generous pool of slick against his heaving belly. He curls his fingers at the knuckle, shivering as more spurts out. 

“Poor thing,” Bilbo croons. He traces the outline of Thorin’s sack, dipping his fingers beneath, rubbing. Thorin throws back his head, mouthing words he can’t give proper voice to. He turns his face into the pillow, dark hair spilling over his cheek, sticking to sweat and catching against his parted lips.

“You’re so full for me you’re dripping with it,” Bilbo tells him, his breath damp against Thorin’s skin. “Do you think I could run you dry just like this? Empty you out before you even reach your peak?”

“Please,” Thorin chokes, blood pounding in his ears, pulsing low and hot in his loins.

“Please what?”

“Touch me, I can’t stand it, just—” 

Bilbo curls his fingers around the length of him, easing back his foreskin, thumbing at the stout base. “Like that?”

“Yes,” Thorin sobs. “Yes, _yes_ , oh…”

“Thorin,” Bilbo says. “You have to watch.”

Thorin tries. He does, but his remaining strength leaves him in a rush when Bilbo begins to stroke. He catches only a glimpse of the wet, swollen head of his prick appearing and reappearing from Bilbo’s fist before he jerks up into his touch, eyes pinching close. His entire body jolts, the muscles in his thighs and belly jumping before pulling tight. His peak steals over him all at once, taking him up and up until he muzzily wonders if he will ever come back down. Bilbo guides him through it all, his hold softening only when the tremors begin.

“There you go,” Bilbo says, stretching himself over Thorin’s shaking body. He kisses the bridge of his nose, eyes crinkling charmingly at the corners when Thorin blinks and meets his gaze. “All right?”

“Mm.” Thorin draws his thumb down along the stone in Bilbo’s throat, murmuring unhappily when Bilbo moves out of reach.

“Just a moment,” Bilbo says. He takes Thorin’s fluttering hand between both of his own, kissing at his knuckles, the back of his wrist. The mattress shifts as he slips away and Thorin breathes deep, turning his cheek towards the pillow, wanting him back. 

He hovers between sleep and wakefulness, twitching when a damp cloth is dragged between his heated thighs. His stomach is cleaned next, the edges of his mouth and fingers. His eyes crack open when Bilbo wraps his arms around him, pulling Thorin close and easing his head down to settle over the soft curve of his belly, grunting with the effort. Thorin blows out an amused puff of air, wriggling when Bilbo tugs at his beard.

“Ow,” he says. Bilbo trembles with mirth beneath the press of his cheek. “I take it you’re no longer angry with me.”

“I was never angry,” Bilbo grumbles, sniffing when Thorin makes a disbelieving sound. “Well, all right, perhaps a little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was as much my fault as yours.” Bilbo draws a hand down the length of Thorin’s hair, easing out a loose tangle before twirling a few stray strands around his fingers. “Never mind that now. Go to sleep.”

But there’s more Thorin would like to say. He wants to tell Bilbo of his day, complain about the ambassador from the Iron Hills, share the worries that had hounded him mere hours ago. Bilbo scratches his nails lightly against his scalp, eyebrows quirking curiously when Thorin twists and looks up at him, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue curling back on themselves.

 _I love you,_ is what he thinks, warmth blossoming within him, spreading outwards from his very core.

“Thank you,” is what he says.

Bilbo tilts his head, the braid in his hair skimming along his dimpled cheek, his smile as bright and bold as the morning sun cresting above the horizon.

“You’re welcome.”


End file.
